


Late Bloom

by JustAnotherCullen



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Blooming Rose, Brothels, Conflict of Interests, Dubious Consent, Economics, F/M, Family, Power Imbalance, Psychological Trauma, Sex Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2018-12-07 18:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11629659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustAnotherCullen/pseuds/JustAnotherCullen
Summary: A Blooming Rose AU. After struggling with dreams of Solona Amell for months, Knight-Captain Cullen uses an investigation at the Blooming Rose as an excuse to solicit sex and get Amell out of his system. He unwittingly engages the services of Marian Amell Hawke, an apostate who bears an uncanny resemblance to her Circle mage cousin. Hawke has enough problems as it is, but now she has to find a way to safely manage Cullen as a client without ending up in the Gallows.





	1. Chapter 1

The red paper lanterns strung across the alley were oddly pretty in the morning light. In the harsh light of the afternoon they were seedy-looking, but in the early dawn their colors were muted and softened by fog, casting a pinkish tinge over the granite walls of the brothel district. Under other circumstances he might feel warmed by their glow but he felt too exposed without his armor. The cut of his cheap town clothes was all wrong--too pinched here, too lose there.

A guard loitering at the gate nodded to him, but he ignored her. Many less-disciplined guards and templars squandered their pay and time at the Blooming Rose. He had no desire to be friendly with them. His patronage had a higher purpose, templar business was what brought him here, and once he had the answers he sought he need never return.

Still, he hesitated at the large wooden doors, gazing at the carved gynocentric rosebud without quite seeing it. His previous attempt to question the young ladies at the Blooming Rose had gone nowhere. They mocked him with the madame’s blessing and said they would not answer questions unless he paid for a session. He’d refused, naturally, and strode out, catching a glimpse of a familiar-looking shadow on the way. The shadow stayed with him, hovering at the periphery of his vision. He’d begun to hear Amell when he was acutely distressed or upset. Was he now seeing her, too?

After months of bottling up his emotions and impulses he’d begun to suspect he was making the problem worse. He’d become distracted and angry, prone to lashing out. His responsibilities had tripled since his new promotion and his work was suffering. The possibility he might now be having visual hallucinations spurred him to find relief. There was no shame in seeking out a professional to satisfy such urges. If he had to go to the Rose anyway he could at least try to solve two problems at once. If it took a bit of coin to get Amell out of his system he would gladly pay it. Anything that affected his performance as Knight-Captain could rightly be called templar business, after all.

It was with this thought that he finally pushed the door open. His palm was sweaty against the ornate handle, but once inside he was somewhat comforted by the stillness of the place. It was quiet in the morning, oddly peaceful. No doubt much of the brothel’s business was conducted in the evenings and at the end of the week after stipends were paid.

The cavernous entry room exhibited balconies for all three floors. There were sundry rooms along the sides for dining and amusements, cards and music. If not for the soft pink paint and carved rosebuds along molding the Blooming Rose could have passed for a large city tavern.

The bar was unmanned and he waited restlessly for someone to notice him. He wasn’t sure where to put his hands and settled for behind his back. After some minutes a young woman spied him en route to the kitchen and made a swift detour to the bar. “Oh, it’s you again,” she said. “Has someone helped you?” Her voice carried in the quiet. It seemed to him there was a hint of mockery in it, but he resisted the urge to flee. He must see this through, for the sake of the Order.

She did not wait for an answer. She hefted a large ledger and flipped through it. “Any preferences? Male, female? Hair color? Body type?”

“No,” he said. He wanted to keep things as clinical as possible. Things were muddled enough as it was. The last thing he needed was to ask for specifics and end up with someone who looked like the very apparition he was trying to escape.

A tall qunari came in through the bar. She leaned against the wall, waiting.

“We have basic and premium service,” the woman said.

That seemed like a rather vulgar categorization. “I only wish to talk,” he said, and handed her what he’d brought, a week’s pay.

“This will get you twenty minutes basic service with one partner,” she said, weighing the coins in her hand. “If you want to open a tab—”

“Twenty minutes is sufficient, thank you,” he said. Maker willing he’d never visit this place again.

She smiled at that, but did not press the point. “You’re not from around here, ser.”

“No, I transferred after the Blight. Ferelden.” He spoke too freely. He always did when he was nervous.

She nodded, clucking her tongue thoughtfully as she scanned the list. “Fereldan,” she said. “I have just the one. Enjoy your conversation.” To the qunari, she said, “Green room.”

The tall woman pushed off the wall and after a brief hesitation Cullen followed. He was led to a room on the first floor tucked away next to a drinking lounge.

The qunari gently rapped on the door with a knuckle. “Honey,” she said, in a musical alto. “You ready to get started?”

“I’m ready,” a voice called back.

The tall woman went to a chair along the wall. She removed a worn book and flipped through it. She noticed Cullen still standing there awkwardly and said, “Go in,” and motioned to the door.

The door groaned loudly when Cullen opened it, startling him. He eased it the remainder of the way and the groan lowered to a whine. It whined again when he shut it. The room was dim, illuminated only by a small ventilation window. There was a bed and a vanity with a washbasin. A woman’s silhouette moved in the dark. Though he could hardly make her out she seemed familiar.

“Shall I light a lantern?” she asked, her accent soft, Fereldan. Her voice was disturbingly reminiscent of the voice that had plagued him the past year, but that wasn’t particularly surprising. He was anxious, after all.

He shook his head, realized she might not be able to see it, and said, “No.”

He sat on the bed. It was much more pliant than the firm mattress in the officers quarters. The give disoriented him. The mattress was not soft, merely worn from use. He wished he didn’t notice things like that. He waited, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light.

“What do you like?” the young lady asked, walking around the bed.

He drew a quiet breath. He’d considered how to ask about the missing templar recruits, and had even rehearsed an interrogation in front of the mirror, but as soon as she dropped a pillow in front of him and went to her knees it all flew out of his head.

“We’ll figure it out together,” she said, head down. She began unlacing his trousers and he resisted the impulse to slap her hand away. Her manner helped. She was brisk, reinforcing their interaction was a business transaction, nothing more. This was maintenance, little different than sharpening a sword or patching a boot.

“I need to ask you a few questions,” he said, attempting to keep a semblance of authority in his voice and failing. He found himself studying the top of her head as she worked on his trousers. Her hair was rich and dark with a slight curl to it.

“Do you?” she asked. Her fingertips were cool against his bare skin. He instinctively clenched the mattress, wrinkling the sheets in his fists. He’d spent so many months fighting his sexual urges it was a second nature to dig-in and resist. He exhaled slowly.

“What questions?” she prompted, looking up, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest.

After months of haunting his dreams, Solona Amell was on her knees before him in the dark, holding his cock. He squeezed his eyes shut. He opened them. She was still there. This couldn’t be Amell, that was impossible. She simply had an uncanny resemblance. Perhaps there was no resemblance at all and his sleep-deprived mind was playing tricks on him. She shared Amell’s strong nose and wide-set eyes, but those were hardly unique features, perhaps in better light…

“Do you want to touch me?” she asked, easing her robe off one shoulder.

It was too much like the whispers that rattled around in his skull at night. He stood abruptly, fumbling to put himself back in his pants.

She was on her feet in an instant. “Wait,” she said, “I can do better, just tell me what-”

She touched his arm and instinct kicked in; he threw her onto the bed. She bounced, scrambling to get up, and he shoved her down and held her there. The voice, the face--how was this possible? Was he really this far gone? Had he truly lost his mind?

After so many long, lonely months, it was only then, staring down at Solona Amell on the bed beneath him, that his long-dormant cock began to stir. He almost laughed. He was sweating, his hands were clammy. He shut his eyes, fighting to control his ragged breathing.

He opened his eyes and Solona was still there. There was no escape. He would be shackled to her for eternity. She would never stop tormenting him unless he did something about it.

Her robe had parted in the struggle, revealing a sliver of bare skin. He yanked it open and his cock rose like a weapon at the sight of her exposed body. He grabbed a handful of that soft, curly hair, forcing her head to the side so she couldn’t look at him. She gripped the sheets white-knuckled, staring determinedly at the wall, and did not resist.

Take what you’ve always wanted, Amell said. That familiar refrain. Their voices were so similar he could pretend the young lady had said it, if he wanted.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

Her eyes rolled up to look at him. She began to struggle and he had to fight to hold her down and that was what finally made him hard. His detached understanding that this was obscene grappled with his desperate, frantic hope that taking, as he was forever extolled, would finally end it. He tried to aim but the feel of his own aroused flesh against his palm made him want to vomit. He ground against her until he managed to push between her thighs.

She clamped her legs together and he groaned and succumbed, rutting her like a dog with fast, erratic thrusts, jostling her violently on the squeaking mattress. Within seconds his hips stuttered. He drew back, his speed spilling on her thighs and stomach.

The bloom of orgasm eased his thudding heart. It was over. It had only lasted a few moments but he was already out of breath. A drop of sweat fell from the tip of his nose, dripping onto her collarbone. He stared at the iridescent sheen of come on her body, watching as a rivulet ran down her hip and vanished into the sheets. He had always wondered what it would look like to…

Come on a mage’s body? Amell asked, but the voice seemed far away, inconsequential, with a flesh and blood Amell naked beneath him. She was rigid, eying him as though he were some sort of wild animal. Her fingers were clamped around something pale and ghostlike, her grip so tight she’d torn the material. A sheep skin. He’s heard older templars speak of such things. She’d meant to put it on him before they started.

A sick feeling stirred in his gut. He could have placed a terrible burden on this young lady if his aim had been true. He climaxed so quickly he would not have been able to pull out in time.

He wrenched away, hastily lacing up his trousers. The morning light was gradually brightening the room and he was troubled to find she looked even more like Amell than before and the sight of her disheveled and covered in his seed was as exhilarating as it was unsettling. She did not appear hurt, only wary, and eager for him to leave.

He did not prolong the encounter. He hurried out, leaving the door ajar behind him. The qunari stopped reading as he passed but made no effort to follow. There was no post-coital haze, only adrenaline; his mind was racing, his thoughts too fast to fully process. Even after he boarded the ferry and was assailed by the ocean winds he was sure the smell of sex clung to him, betraying where he’d been, what he’d done, but he did not wash it away. The lingering musk proved the encounter was real. It was a sex act he could be sure had actually happened, however coarse it had been. It was an act he could claim.

He armored and retreated to his cramped office and was steadily working by the time the morning bell rang. He felt oddly light. He’d dreaded the thing, but now that it was over he felt relieved, almost buoyant. The uncertainty of what had happened at the tower still loomed in the back of his mind, casting a shadow over his thoughts, but it seemed farther away now. At the forefront was the young lady at the Blooming Rose, of her bared body and breasts, the tantalizing thatch of curls between her legs. He couldn’t stop thinking about her, but she was a welcome distraction after being haunted by Amell for so long. Better to fixate on the young lady. She was real and, most importantly, not a mage. She was the far safer fantasy.

“Knight-Captain,” the Knight-Commander said.

He startled. Knight-Commander Meredith was standing in the doorway to his office. She filled the narrow space so completely and with such authority he was amazed he hadn’t noticed her sooner. He wondered how long she’d been standing there.

“Knight-Commander,” he said, standing quickly. His chair squeaked.

“How is recruitment?”

“Good, Knight-Commander,” he said. He had not yet told her about the missing recruits. He wanted to show her he could resolve such things on his own.

“You’ve been preoccupied lately,” she said.

“I’m merely had trouble sleeping,” he said. He wasn’t sure how much she knew about his past. Knight-Commander Greagoir would have given her the pertinents, but in moments like these it seemed her penetrating blue eyes saw straight into his wretched heart. “Do you wish to take a few days?” she asked. “You have not permitted yourself any leave since your arrival.”

She was watching him. Did she doubt his ability to handle his new post? He’d heard grousing amongst the officers that he was too young and inexperienced to be a proper Knight-Captain. He’d dismissed it as professional jealousy, but if his performance continued to suffer he might prove them right. At the first sign of weakness they would begin jockeying for his position. “That won’t be necessary, Knight-Commander,” he said. “Exercise and rest will resolve the problem, I’m certain.” Exercise and rest were the usual suggestions offered up by members of the Chantry when he tried to consult with them. Exercise, rest, and prayer, and he would be as good as new.

“Very well,” Knight-Commander Meredith said. Her tone was neutral, but when his doorway was empty once more he was left with the crushing sense he had already disappointed her.

If he located the missing recruits he could show her how dedicated he was to the rank and file. He was leery of returning to the Blooming Rose but he had little choice. He’d been unable to get any of the Lieutenants to investigate in his stead. They denied any connection between the recruits and the brothel and insisted the recruits had simply run away. The madame had a stranglehold on Kirkwall’s sex trade and he suspected his fellow officers did not want to get on her bad side.

If he returned to the Rose he would likely see the young lady again. He wanted to see her, he could hardly pretend he didn’t, but he was afraid of what he might find. What if she looked nothing like Amell at all? Would that be confirmation he was truly unfit for duty? The fact that he was so powerfully drawn to her, in spite of how the encounter had gone, was a warning of its own.

Howevermuch she looked like Amell, she wasn’t Amell. She wasn’t a mage. She was a safe substitute, and he could surely brave intimacy with her if that was what it took to set himself right again. He could be with her as often as he liked, no one would judge him for it. He wasn’t sure if she could or would refuse service in light of his behavior, he did not know the rules in such places. Both possibilities stirred him uncomfortably.

Of course, they would simply talk at first, as he’d originally intended. He needed to apologize to her and he still needed to question her. Once she opened up to him, she might even welcome a chance to talk with someone from Fereldan. Perhaps in time they might… Well, he need not think about such things. The investigation took precedence. He would rescue the recruits. The Knight-Commander would be proud.


	2. Chapter 2

Marian Hawke’s contract at the Blooming Rose allotted her one night off per week and a chance to sleep in her own bed. It was a short homecoming. As soon as she adjusted to the cabbage and sewage smell of Lowtown and her hard straw bed and the creaking foundations, and finally began to thaw the uncomfortable silence and settle back in with her mother, she had to return to the perfume and cigar aromas of the brothel, the feel of silk and oil on her skin, and the chatter and laughter of her fellows and patrons. It was never easy, returning home.

Before leaving Hightown she always went shopping, strategically buying accessories and clothes befitting a lady as well as little gifts for her mother to smooth her return. Most of the nobles loitering on the boulevard ignored her, but that would change one day. For now, she was content to observe who gossiped with whom and which eyes tracked her movement. She did not want to gain the nobility’s attention now--it was understood any noble who engaged basic service was a cad short on funds who would be a discourteous lay and a bad tipper--but when her fortunes improved their interest would be essential.

Following the main boulevard and the colorful protective shade awnings led one naturally to the Keep or the Chantry. Increasingly, Hawke chose the former. The Keep had been a Magister’s mansion once. It dwarfed even Lady Sartre’s high-walled gardens in the foreign quarter. She was still awed by the massive size of the throne room, with its towering ceilings and massive red banners and the terraced rows of stairs leading to the large stone throne. Hawke had never seen the throne occupied. The Viscount’s audiences were closed affairs.

Seneschal Bran Cavin must be some sort of Fade creature, because every time she approached the Viscount’s office he immediately materialized in front of her, barring entry. Today she made it all the way to the top of the stairs before Bran neatly slid in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back.

“We meet again,” he said in a bored tone, barely sparing her a glance.

“Good afternoon, serah,” she said. “How are you?”

“Exquisite,” he said.

Hawke was inclined to agree. What was it Viveka had once said? When it came to lovers, she wanted what she knew better than wanting. “You’re just the person I hoped to see. My mother-”

“Is on the waiting list,” the seneschal said.

Hawke bit her tongue and said, “Yes, but she’s been waiting-”

“Which is why it’s called a waiting list. Is there anything else?”

“Is there anything I can do?” Hawke asked shyly, averting her eyes.

Bran motioned her near. She obliged, taking two steps closer. She could smell his cologne. It smelled expensive. He leaned in, his breath warm on her ear. She tilted her face expectantly. He whispered, “ _No_.”

She drew back, a brow arched in disbelief. “I find that hard to believe,” she said. “Let me draft a proposal. You’ll find I’m quite creative.”

He almost smiled. “If I had a copper for every winsome young woman who thought a suck and a tug meant anything around here,” he said, and waved her away with a flutter of his hand.

She took a perverse sort of pleasure in his refusal. If the seneschal was a puzzle, she would solve him. At least now he was calling her winsome. It was an improvement over what he’d called her the first few times. She turned lightly, giving her skirt a little flutter that was purely for his benefit, and trotted down the stairs.

She bought gifts on her way to her Uncle’s house--fruit, bread, and a sachet of tea leaves--and when her mother answered the door she offered these up as though sacrificing to some distant maternal goddess. Leandra Amell accepted the tea and prepared two cups. The water in Lowtown had to be filtered multiple times and boiled, a tedious process, but her mother always ensured there was enough potable water on hand for tea at a moment’s notice.

“How are you?” Leandra asked, her tone guarded as always. She would probably never forgive Uncle Gamlen for indenturing her otherwise marriageable noble daughter to a brothel, but they’d had few options and Hawke considered it preferable to mercenary work. She could defend herself, being an apostate, but violence was against her nature and the mercenary guilds did not like foreigners. It took some maneuvering to get the Red Iron to take Carver on and she was still not sure she’d done the right thing.

“They’re looking for a bookkeeper on the docks,” Hawke said. “The pay is low, but it’s experience. I think it could help me get into the clerk’s office.” Perhaps assurances her servitude to the Rose was temporary would improve her mother’s mood. The path from the Rose to the Keep was a long one, requiring a tremendous amount of networking, but she’d mapped out the steps and she was committed.

Leandra placed a cup of tea before her. The steam carried the mingling fragrances of Rivain spices and blossoms. One benefit of living in Kirkwall, possibly the only one, was that it provided better access to imported goods than an isolated farming village like Lothering.

Leandra took a sip and quietly asked, “Would they take you?”

Hawke did not have the energy to once again reassure her mother that she was unsullied by her trade. Her time at the Rose complicated matters where future employment was concerned, but she’d deal with that when the time came. In the meantime, her earnings kept the family afloat. For all her mother’s complaints, you’d think she was the one on her back every night.

Carver slammed the door open, as he often did, and barged into the kitchen. He was filthy and stinking of sweat.

“Good heavens,” Leandra said, wrinkling her nose. “Carver, what have you—?”

“We cleared the estate out, mum,” Carver said, dropping into a chair. He poked through the bag of fruit, hooking a cluster of grapes with a dirty index finger. Grime was caked under his nails, but no blood this time, to Hawke’s relief. “Me and Aveline. You should have seen ‘em run.” He popped one of the grapes into his mouth. “You’re not the only one who pulls their weight around here, sister.”

“They’re gone?” Leandra asked, her tea forgotten.

“They’re gone, mother. They won’t mess with the Amells again, not if they know what’s good for them.” He popped another grape into his mouth and crushed it between his teeth, pausing to savor the bite. “Now all we have to do is petition the Viscount, right? And he’ll grant us the deed? It’s our house, anyway, I can’t see why he wouldn’t.” He frowned at Hawke’s expression. “What now?”

“Hasn’t Meeran put you on anything?”

“He says I’ve got to wait my turn. A thank you for clearing out mother’s ancestral home would be nice.”

“Oh, thank you, Carver,” Leandra said, squeezing his hand, and he glowed. “Thank the Maker, I couldn’t stand the thought of those horrible people squatting there.”

“The petition may be a challenge,” Hawke said carefully. She didn’t want her family to get their hopes up too quickly. Her mother’s belief that they would soon return to Amell manor kept her going, but even if the Viscount restored the deed there was the matter of affording the manor’s upkeep.

“He’s just Viscount in name, anyway,” Carver said. “It’s not like he has something better to do.”

“The Viscount isn’t the problem,” Hawke said. “It’s his seneschal.” Hawke had been looking for an inroad for weeks. Bran guarded access to the Viscount’s office as jealously as he had the day she met him. He had a price, all men did, but she hadn’t uncovered it yet.

“He’ll see Lady Amell,” Carver said, popping another grape into his mouth. “You watch.” Leandra smiled at him and rose to prepare another cup of tea.

From the outset Hawke had known their true obstacle would be liquid assets. The manor had fallen into disrepair beyond what she or her brother could reasonably fix on their own. It needed to be cleaned and furnished and staffed. They could probably get away with a single housekeeper, but they had to hire someone. Nobles did not keep house. If the Amells were to rise to their former glory they would have to act like the old nobility they were. That meant hiring servants and purchasing clothes to dress the part and, eventually, throwing parties and entertaining guests. It meant Carver would need a respectable job so he would be marriageable.

She was considering several investment opportunities but all required significant startup capital. She earned a decent percentage at Lusine’s, but the bulk of her signing fee had repaid the bribe that got her family into the city (and, she suspected, significant existing debt accrued by her uncle). Her pay was enough to make their stay at Gamlen’s more comfortable, but it was nowhere near what was needed for an investment. She’d earn even less as a bookkeeper or at any number of jobs in Lowtown. The courtesans at the Rose earned far more than any other profession she’d researched, but those were highly-competitive positions requiring multi-year contracts and, of course, premium service. Being a mage gave her an advantage, mage courtesans were highly sought-after, but if she took that road she’d be bound to the Rose indefinitely.

“You’ll love living there,” Leandra was saying. “There’s a garden in the back, we used to play under the shade tree when we were children. You’ll leave that place soon and things will get back to normal and we’ll be a real family again.”

That place. She couldn’t even bring herself to say the brothel by name.

“I can’t wait,” Hawke said, taking a sip of her tea, and for the first time that day, her mother smiled at her.

After tea and several spirited rounds of cards, in which she and Carver beat each other in turn, she kissed her mother and went out to conduct the family’s business under the guise of taking a walk. There seemed little point in pressing Meeran, Carver’s cut with the Red Iron would be nowhere near what they needed to get going, but she’d made a deal with him and she expected him to honor it. There was her reputation to consider. Access to her body had to mean something.

She considered it a good omen when she saw Aveline en route to the Hanged Man and cheerfully flagged her down.“I thought you might like to take a pleasant stroll on the docks with me,” Hawke said. “I wanted to say hello to a friend.”

Aveline put a hand on her armored hip. “What sort of friend necessitates a bodyguard?”

Naturally, she’d guessed the right of it. Aveline was her preferred companion for any situation that might involve a physical altercation. Hawke said, “I only want the pleasure of your company. I’ll buy you a drink after.”

Aveline shook her head in disbelief but said, “Lead on.”

They wove their way through the market stalls and down the broad staircases hewn into stone, passing underneath faded, frayed cloth tarps that shielded the crowds from the sun. The smell of cabbage and sewage was soon replaced with the smell of fish and sewage--an improvement only if one had grown wearily accustomed to the other.

“A friend, you say,” Aveline said, when they entered Red Iron territory near the north docks.

“I’ll only be a moment,” Hawke said.

One of the men lounging around Meeran’s place said something to her, one of the women whistled and made as if to grope her, but she ignored them. When she stopped at the threshold to their boss’ door they promptly backed off, as she’d known they would.

Meeran was sitting on a crate picking his nails with a knife. Waiting for what, Maker only knew. “You again,” he said.

She took a step into his office. “You’re ignoring my brother,” she said.

The mercenary laughed softly. “Do you always fight his battles for him?” he asked, rising to meet her. “Can’t say I mind. You’re a far sight easier on the eyes.”

Hawke kept her chin up. “You said you’d give him a fair chance, doglord or no.” Meeran ran his thumb along the underside of her jaw. She said, “You know where to go if you want that.”

“You don’t do work under the table anymore, is that it?”

“That was before I signed a contract with Lusine,” she said. “If you want me now you have to go through her.” It had been surprisingly gentle with him. She hadn’t enjoyed it, she’d been sore after, but he’d been careful and hadn’t tried to take more than they agreed on.

“I’m not getting business from them,” he said. “Not like I expected.”

“I have no control over that. I put in a word for you. That was the agreement.”

“One more time, off the books,” he said. “I’ll have him working by nightfall.” He didn’t touch her again. He didn’t have to. His eyes touched her everywhere.

If Lusine had taught her anything, it was how much her body was worth. He’d already gotten the better part of their deal. “I thought you were a man of your word,” she said.

Meeran turned away with a grunt. “You understand Kirkwallers don’t particularly like Fereldans.”

“I have little doubt your men respect you more than they dislike my brother. If I didn’t respect your authority I wouldn’t have approached you.” She’d found some men appreciated the idea that she slept with them because she’d chosen to, not because she had to. She’d chosen Meeran over the others. Perhaps that meant something to him.

He waved it off, but the words had their intended effect. “Fair enough. I’ll give him a chance. If he doesn’t carry his weight, he’s out.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That’s all I ask.” She might as well slap a bandage on a gaping wound. Carver could potentially earn enough from mercenary work to allow them to move into their own apartment, perhaps even buy furniture and other things for the estate, but it was nowhere near enough to manage the property. On top of that, the longer he worked underground the worse his future prospects became.

“Sweetheart, you want some advice?” Meeran asked.

“By all means,” she said. It never hurt to be gracious. Those who expected it least appreciated it most.

“He’s not cut-throat enough yet,” Meeran said. “And I’m not sure you want him to be. Find him something else.”

“I understand,” she said, and he brusquely waved her off.

When she regrouped with Aveline the guardsman had gotten an eyeful of the mercenaries hanging around Meeran’s place. She held her displeasure until they stopped at a small dockside pub, which had slightly better ale than the Hanged Man but far less entertaining company, and accepted the mug Hawke handed her before saying, “You need to let Carver prove himself.”

Hawke perched on a stool, enjoying the sea breeze on her face in spite of the smell. The aroma of grilling perch a few feet away helped. She’d developed a taste for seafood after moving here, which was good, because that was what the cooks at the Rose primarily served the staff. “You mean like you did, when you cleaned out the manor for him?”

“He asked me and we did it together,” Aveline said. “He hasn’t asked you for help. You’re managing him behind his back. He’s young but he’s not a child.”

“I told you I would deal with the men at the estate. My way. Without violence.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Aveline said.

“I wasn’t going to fuck them, Aveline,” Hawke said, more sharply than she intended.

Aveline frowned. “I implied no such thing. Whatever your plan was, it would have taken much longer than an afternoon. Can you at least concede his plan worked?”

She had a point. Hawke watched a group of gulls fight over a struggling fish. After a moment the largest gull tore it away from the others and greedily gulped it down.

“You don’t have to do everything yourself, Hawke. You’ve got to let your brother help. If you keep sidelining him he’ll become sullen and resentful.”

Hawke’s irritation at being lectured dropped away at the appearance of a useful segue. “That’s something I wanted to talk to you about, actually.”

“Oh, Maker,” Aveline said. “I know that look. All right, out with it.”

Hawke took a diplomatic sip of her ale and said, “Mercenary work isn’t good for Carver. He’s talked about the Guard. I think it would be an excellent fit. It’s much more respectable work.”

“You want me to put in a word for him, is that it?”

“If you’d be so kind.”

Aveline put her glass down, which meant things were serious. “Hawke, you know I like Carver. You’re like family. I care about you both.”

“And?” Hawke asked.

“I don’t think he’d make a good guardsman.”

“You just said you liked him.”

“I do, but he’s too…” Aveline shook her head. “He’s your brother, maybe you can’t see it. He’s so young and he’s already become so jaded. He’s tired of helping others. It’s hard enough to stay on the right side of it when you want to.”

“Aveline, we really need the money,” Hawke said.

Aveline frowned again. “Hawke.”

“You told me I could always be honest with you.”

“Yes, but that’s not fair.”

That was rather the point. Aveline was still uncomfortable with the fact that Hawke’s contract at the Rose had bought her own entry into Kirkwall, but that emotional leverage wouldn’t last forever. Hawke was willing to take advantage of it if she could. Hawke took another sip. “I don’t see how the reality of my living situation is unfair to you, but you’ve made your decision. I’m not going to argue.” She took another sip. Maybe if she tried it enough she’d like it eventually.

“Hawke, I’m worried about you.”

The genuine concern in her tone tugged at Hawke’s heart. She said, “Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out. I’m looking into some investment opportunities.”

“No, not that. I’ve been keeping an ear to the ground. The templars are becoming interested in the Rose, and not for the usual reasons. There’s an investigation underway. There’s a rumor recruits have gone missing because of a blood mage.”

A prickle ran up the back of Hawke’s neck. Very few blood mages were as conscientious as her friend Merrill. The Kirkwall templars hunted maleficarum relentlessly and were rumored to kill suspected blood mages on sight. A bood mage at the Blooming Rose was bad news, but the Order investigating a blood mage on the premises was even worse. She’d managed to keep her secret so far, primarily because she avoided templars at all costs. She was not sure how she would fare under the Order’s scrutiny.

“Speaking of templars,” Aveline said, in a low voice. “There’s Cullen.”

“Who?” Hawke asked, glancing casually over her shoulder.

She almost didn’t hear Aveline say, “The Knight-Captain.” Her heart stopped for a moment. Even from this distance she recognized the young man from the green room. He looked different in the bright light of day in full templar plate with a sword and shield slung over his back. He and two other templars were having a heated conversation with the harbormaster. Light gleamed off his breastplate, hurting her eyes.

“He’s the Knight-Captain?” Hawke asked, turning back quickly. “He’s much too young.”

“You’re not the only one who thinks so,” Aveline said. “He’s not well liked, but they say he gets results. At least Meredith seems to think so. The position has apparently been empty for some time.”

Knowing the Knight-Captain had been in her bed made the encounter even more difficult to process. She’d felt the sword callouses on his hands and noticed the tan line of a gorget around his neck, but she’d assumed he was a guard. How had she not realized he was a templar? How could she have a templar officer that close--on top of her, between her legs--and not know what he was? The glass feel strangely clammy in her hand. She took another drink at put it down, wiping her palm on her skirt.

“Is there a blood mage at the Rose?” Aveline asked.

Hawke glanced over her shoulder again, but the templars had moved on. “Merrill says there’s no way to tell until they actually use blood magic.”

“Hmmm. Hard to know what to make of it. I heard Cullen went to the Rose personally to investigate, but that might not mean anything. I’m sure most templars would be happy to have an excuse to go to the Rose.”

_I need to ask you a few questions._

Then everything went to the Void. She still wasn’t sure what set him off. She replayed those tense minutes in her mind. How nervous he’d been, how angry and violent he’d suddenly become. The way he looked at her after, like he wanted her more than anything he’d ever known. It was as though something supernatural fueled his desire. It was unsettling. Did he realize she was a mage? Was that part of it? She’d have to come up with a strategy in case he returned. There was only a month left on her contract and she didn’t want to test the limits of Lusine’s protection.

“Hey,” Aveline said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Hawke said, taking a drink. “I just…” At her friend’s concern she caved, for once, and told the truth, though not precisely the truth she was asking after. “Do you think less of me for working at the Rose?”

“Of course not,” Aveline said, slightly appalled. “You have no choice, we all know that.”

“But what if I did have a choice?”

“Your year’s over soon, isn’t it? You can do whatever you want after that.”

“You mean wash laundry or wait tables?” Hawke asked, with a dry smile. _And suck cock in the alley out back_ , she didn’t say, because after you’d sold your body once some people expected you always would. And if she needed the money badly enough… She didn’t want to think about having to make that choice. It was one thing to work at the Rose, with a level of protection and respect, and another to ply the trade in the street.

“No, of course not, you have options. You’re so clever,” Aveline said. “You come from a noble family.” She reached across the table. Her rough, calloused hand was warm against Hawke’s softer, perfumed skin. “Hawke, this isn’t you. It’s just a job. We all understand that. You’ll find something better.”

Hawke stood, gently pulling her hand away. “I’ve got to get back. Mother’s waiting. Thank you for warning me.”

“Any time,” Aveline said. “We Fereldans have got to look out for each other.”

Hawke pushed her chair in and added, “And thanks for helping Carver. I’ll think about what you said.”

“He just wants to prove himself, to you and your mother.”

“I know,” Hawke said. She understood wanting to prove oneself better than anyone.

 


	3. Chapter 3

 “What’s the status of the investigation at the Rose, ser?” Knight-Lieutenant Karras asked.

“Ongoing,” Cullen said crisply. The older templars nearby laughed and Cullen busied himself with the supply manifest. He was not happy word of his private visit to the Rose had spread so quickly. At least now when he heard laughter at his back he knew what it was about. He’d never been sure what rumors followed him across the Waking Sea.

He might have put off his return to the Blooming Rose yet another day if not for Macha. Once again she came to the Gallows seeking word of her brother. She was physically shadowed by the armed templars and mercenaries who loitered in the courtyard, slender and cautious in her homespun dress and worn shoes, but her tenacity made her the larger force, in his eyes. She reminded him of his elder sister Mia in that regard.

Cullen put aside the manifest. Here he was, worried about rumors and visiting a brothel, and this poor woman was at her wit’s end over her missing sibling.

“I’m sorry I don’t have news, miss,” he said. “The investigation is underway as we speak.”

“Yes ser, I know, the other officers told me. I don’t mean to bother you…”

“Miss, your concerns are perfectly understandable,” he said. “I want to help however I can.”

“It’s just, we depend on Keran. His stipend.” She was picking at the hem of her sleeve. She said, “That sounds horrible, I know, please understand, we’re worried about him most of all, but if this goes on much longer I won’t be able to keep the family fed. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

Jobs were increasingly scarce in Kirkwall after the large influx of Fereldan refugees. There were more hands than labor to go around. Most of the unskilled work in Lowtown earned a pittance now. After his promotion he’d been surprised to find a significant number of recruits were the primary breadwinners for their families even though their wages were only slightly better than those of trade apprentices and miners. He’d never thought about it until he became Knight-Captain and witnessed their burdens from the perspective of a superior officer. He’d never had to worry about supporting anyone but himself. An officer’s pay was more than reasonable for one person, considering his food and lodgings were taken care of, but his stipend would have to be stretched to support a family.

“I will look into it personally, miss,” he said. “I will make it a priority.”

“Thank you, ser,” she said, grasping his hand gloved hand in both of hers. “I know you approved his application. It meant the world to all of us. We’re grateful for everything you’ve done.” Gratitude from a civilian was a rare and precious thing these days. After the feel of her hands in his and the relief in her voice he could hardly put off the visit to the Blooming Rose any longer.

At shift change he boarded the ferry. The ride across the harbor was hampered by nausea, though he couldn’t be sure if it was seasickness or the prospect of seeing the young lady again. The rocking of the boat perversely reminded him of the way he’d rutted her against the mattress. Shame curdled his unsettled stomach at the memory. The fact that this did not lessen his desire to see her only made him more uneasy. He had never felt such wanton desire for a stranger before. She looked like Amell, that was all. He didn’t  _know_ her. It was unnatural to have such strong sexual desire for her, even if she was a refined young lady he would have found fetching in ordinary circumstances.

In spite of his resolve to see the investigation through, he again hesitated at the crossroads and opted to attend the chant before he carried out his duty. The path from the Blooming Rose to the Chantry was likely a common one for many templars; he suspected he was one of the few who went the other way around.

The afternoon chant was a meager comfort, but a comfort nonetheless. The familiarity of the rituals soothed his frayed nerves. He went to the Chantry for help when the nightmares first began to blur into his waking hours, but it quickly became apparent the Brothers and Sisters were ill-equipped for such problems. He couldn’t tell them the true nature of his dreams and when he confessed general nightmares they prescribed prayer, exercise, and rest. Recitation of the chant saved his life, allowing him to focus inward on his own survival and fortitude and weather the torture and slaughter of his peers, but it did nothing to dispel Amell’s face and voice, her phantom touch.

The drone of the Chant and the aroma of incense passed through him, and as he went on bended knee doubts began to trickle in. As a young templar he had not appreciated the stranglehold the Reverend Mother held on the lyrium supply she doled out in meager spoonfuls on their waiting tongues. Increasingly, his visits to the chantry reminded him of all the ways it bound templars rather than liberated them. He was more acutely aware of the lyrium these days, having gone without for however long in the tower. He understood now he could not easily go without it, and the nightmares and Amell’s persistence was proof lyrium was not the salve they’d been promised. They said lyrium enhanced a templar’s abilities by aiding focus and concentration, but the symptoms of withdrawal were almost debilitating. He had begun to doubt if its efficacy was worth the risks, but he could not go without it now. The chant, the lyrium, it should have been enough. He’d been taught these things would fortify a servant of the Maker, but now he found they barely held the bad at bay.

He rocked slowly on his knee, letting the spiritual hum wash away his anxieties and lull him however it could. When his mind wandered to the young lady he did not resist. The odds he would meet someone who reminded him so much of Solona, without the burden of magic, were infinitesimal. He had not completely dismissed the possibility that he was hallucinating. He was not sure what would be worse: that his sight was true and she was indeed the spitting image of Solona, or that she did not look like her at all. He would have confirmation soon enough.

Apprehension weighed his steps as he neared the lantern district. High noon made the red paper lanterns surrounding the brothel garish once more. A few unsavory types loitered in the square, one catcalling as he passed, another making a suggestive comment about his skirt. He had never encountered street harassment before he came to Kirkwall. Now it was wholly commonplace when he was alone, even if he was in uniform. He had learned not to react but it never ceased to make his heart skip a beat. There was one dubious silver lining: it made him keener to enter the Rose than he had been.

Cullen opened the heavy door with a loud creak. A hush fell over the front gallery when he crossed the threshold, but within seconds the hubbub resumed. He was a bit shocked at how busy the place was midday. Didn’t these people work? And if they didn’t, how in the Maker’s name did they pay for it? He could scarcely afford the rates himself.

“I have templar business,” he told the woman at the bar. “I need to speak with the proprietor.” She vanished behind the curtain and soon the madame appeared in her stead.

“I understand you visited us recently, Knight-Captain,” she said. “Were you displeased with our service?”

He flushed at that, but held his ground. “I am conducting an investigation that requires your cooperation. I cannot take no for an answer.”

She motioned him to follow her through a side hall. The long, narrow hall was filled with chairs occupied by people in various states of congress, the so-called “cheap seats” for those who could not afford a room. He found the public display repellent and walked carefully so he might keep as much distance between himself and the gyrating patrons as possible, but he could not avoid brushing a few of them. The walls of the hall seemed to close in and he was happy to step into the office to escape it, even though it was the smaller of the two.

The madame’s office was a cramped space, packed floor to ceiling with ledgers and stacks of parchment. A bit like his own office, in truth, though her cause was hardly just. She turned to him when he shut the door. She was taller and he had to tilt his head to maintain eye contact.

“This is the third time you’ve paid us a visit. What are you investigating, exactly?”

“Several of our recruits have gone missing. They all availed themselves of your services.”

“Surely not my services,” she said. “I cost three times as much. I daresay a month of the Knight-Captain’s salary wouldn’t be enough, unfortunately.”

He cleared his throat and said, “I meant the young ladies.”

“They only bed women? How particular.”

She was playing with him, but after the mockery he’d endured during his first visit he’d prepared himself for it. He said, “The young ladies and the, ah, lads, that--that is not the point. Their patronage here is a commonality. Your staff has not been forthcoming and I am forced to take more drastic measures. I would like to review your books. Or you may provide me a list of templars you solicit and their partners, if you prefer.”

She laughed. “You’d like to review my books, would you?” She walked around the desk and sat, opening a drawer. “I take the privacy of my customers very seriously,” she said. “Templars especially. Is that what you needed to hear?”

That wasn’t what he needed to hear, he thought irritably, even as relief flowed through him at the assurance. He would not want his abominable behavior toward the young lady to become known. If they were ever intimate again--of course, he had no plans to do so, but one could not dismiss the possibility--he would not want their activities to be known and gossiped about. “If you won’t provide a list I’ll need to question your staff.”

She took a cigar from the drawer and sniffed it. “All of them or just one?” she asked, clipping the tip of the cigar with a small cutter. She did so with a decisive snip.

“I am willing to limit my inquiry if you guarantee cooperation. I will pay for their time, if you insist, but I must be allowed to properly interrogate them.”

She smiled, her teeth clamped around the cigar. “Properly interrogate,” she said, her voice muffled around the cigar. “I like that.” She took a moment to light it with a lantern flame, puffing gently, and blew out a steady stream of smoke. Cullen fidgeted, but managed not to cough. “Who do you want to speak to?” she asked.

He didn’t know the young lady’s name. He shifted uneasily, his couter and vambrace creaking.

“Perhaps you could describe them to me,” the madame said. The edge of a derisive smile lingered on her lips as she smoked.

“I would speak to the, ah, the young lady from Ferelden,” he said.

“The pretty one with the small tits and the curly dark hair between her legs?”

His mind automatically flashed to the young lady’s bared body beneath him, her warmth, her hair tousled across the sheets. “I would not describe her as such,” he said, struggling against the heat creeping up the back of his neck.

“But that is who you mean,” she said.

“Yes,” he said tightly.

“She’s worth a lot to me,” the madame said. She took a short puff of her cigar and added, “She’s worth more than a simple bribe to a templar, even if you are Meredith’s second.”

I don’t take bribes, he wanted to say, because he did not, but instead he said, “I don’t think you appreciate the gravity of this investigation. Multiple sources have confirmed you have a blood mage on the premises.”

Any hint of a smile vanished. He was left facing ice. “A mage?” she asked. “You’re suggesting a I hire  _robes_?”

“Not intentionally,” he said quickly. “But I am confident there is a mage among your staff.”

“Is that why you want to question her? You think she’s consorting with apostates?”

“No,” he said, taken aback. “Of course not, a young lady such as her would never associate with that sort, I only…” Her eyes narrowed speculatively. He’s said to much. He couldn’t help it, the madame made him nervous. Her cigar made him nervous. Everything about this wretched place made him nervous. He’d been so close to having what he wanted and now he could see the window of opportunity easing shut. “I want to know where our recruits have gone and I am naturally suspicious a mage is involved. Getting our people back is my primary concern, of course.”

The madame tugged a bell pull by the desk. When a woman poked her head into the office, the madame said, “Tell Hawke her templar is here,” and the woman vanished.

_Her templar_. The implied ownership had a queer effect on him, one which he purposefully ignored by focusing on his acute discomfort. They probably only waited a few minutes but it felt like he stood there a year as the madame scrutinized him, smoke wafting about her face as if she were some Fade creature surveying prey. At the sound of the knob he turned, eager for anything to break that uncomfortable silence, and found himself face-to-face with the object of his desire at last, wide-set eyes, strong nose, and all.

He had not imagined the likeness. She looked uncannily like Amell. She eased past him and slipped into the office, standing beside the madame’s desk. Looking at her in the full light of the office reassured him he was not mad--at least, not on that count. On closer inspection her appearance was not identical, but it was astonishingly close. Little wonder he’d reacted so strongly to her in the dark. She was two steps from the stuff of his dreams.

He realized he was staring and they were letting him. He cleared his throat. “Ah, hello,” he managed, like an idiot.

“The Knight-Captain asked for you,” the madame said. “He wants to question you.”

“I remember,” the young lady said. Remember what, he wanted to ask, uncomfortably aware of how many unpleasant answers she might provide. It was a relief when she asked, “What questions?”

“Have you seen templars here before?” he asked. Not the best question to lead with, but his rehearsed line of interrogation was a bit muddled in his mind at the moment.

“You want to know if I’ve been with other templars?” she asked.

“Been with…? No, I meant-” He briefly shut his eyes and started again. “There are rumors a mage is working at the Blooming Rose. Is there any truth to it?”

She wet her lip. Nerves, perhaps. His rank had that effect on people. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about mages. I’m not sure why the Order would care what goes on in a brothel.”

“Surely you understand the importance of the Circle and why such a person might be a concern in your, ah, profession?”

“What are you implying?” she asked.

“It’s a matter of public safety. Mages are not like ordinary people, their bodies can be turned into weapons or worse. Most lack self-discipline and basic training, making containment and supervision essential. It seems to me a place such as this creates a natural environment for a loss of control.”

“Perhaps it might for you,” she said, letting it hang for a moment before continuing. He’d thought his face could get no warmer. At this rate he’d turn into a beet before the interrogation was finished. “Do you question my control?”

“No, of course not. But you understand this investigation is not only for the safety of your patrons, but for yourself and your coworkers as well?” It was suddenly important she understand his side of it. If she understood, she would agree with him, he was sure of it.

The madame sucked in another mouthful of smoke and said, “She’s gotten to you, hasn’t she?”

“I don't know what you mean,” he said, uneasy at the intrusion.

“You want to have a talk with her in private,” she said.

Cullen hadn’t had a good grip on this interaction to begin with and it was woefully clear it was slipping through his fingers. The madame’s presence was keeping him off balance and making it difficult to perform his duty. If he could speak to the young lady alone, away from here, he could question her properly. Surely she would help him, she seemed clever and reasonable enough.

“I would,” he said, finally. “But not here.”

“We accommodate that,” the madame said. “Girlfriend service is two sovereigns. You can talk, go out, enjoy each other’s company, and kiss and pet over clothes, but anything more is two sovereigns extra and must be paid for in advance. You may go wherever you like in Hightown, provided she is returned safely within an hour. She'll meet you outside shortly.”

Cullen almost winced, not only at the name but the price. He was going to have to requisition funds for this. He'd come here expecting to pay for the privilege of interrogation he just hadn't expected it to be twice as much as before. It was just one session and his cause was noble. He would cover for it, somehow. He said, “Miss, if you have any objection, I--”

“I’d like to go out,” she said.

He straightened at that. She would? Thank the Maker. The young lady was looking at her employer with an expression he could not read, but she did seem to want to go out. She was clearly limited in what she could say here. Once they were outside the brothel they could have a proper discussion and she would be able to help him.

The madame held out her hand.

He did not want to take out his purse and fish for coin in front of the young lady. It was base. He said, “Ah, I’ll… handle it outside.” At the incline of the madame’s head he nearly burst out the door, pausing only to tell the young lady, “I’ll be down the street. When you’re ready, of course, please don’t hurry on my account.”

He hardly noticed the people in the hall, so intent was he on extracting the two sovereigns from his purse and passing them off to the young woman at the bar. The sooner the coins left his hand the better. He didn’t like paying for her company. Not because she wasn’t worth it, of course, she was easily worth twice as much, but because… He shook it off. This was a business meeting, essentially. He would interrogate her on the pertinents and she, being reasonable and understanding, would help him. If there was extra time perhaps they might go somewhere nice to talk and get to know one another, but his focus was the investigation.

Halfway down the lane he spotted a cafe and had a thought. What if she was hungry? He’d never eaten in Hightown, at best he enjoyed the occasional grilled perch or meat stew at the stalls near the Docks. He ought to take her somewhere decent, but practical. Something Fereldan, of course, that was the thing they had in common. He glanced around, then realized such a place would only be in Lowtown. The cafe would have to do. He sat awkwardly at a small table, the chair shuddering ominously at the combined weight of his person and templar plate.

It was a thankfully mild day, but if they went for a walk he would need to make sure they took the shaded lanes so she wouldn’t have to endure full sun. He would walk her to the Keep then. It was good to have a destination, so he might focus on the interrogation and not worry so much about where his feet were taking him.

“You look like you’re preparing for battle, ser,” a server remarked, stopping by his table. The look she gave him was appraising and not particularly friendly. “Get you something?” She was an older woman and wore a pressed apron that told of experience.

“No, thank you, I…” He tapped his fingers on the table. “There’s someone else, I’m waiting.”

“If you have an idea what your date wants to-”

“It’s not a date,” he explained. “It’s a business meeting, templar business. I’m conducting an investigation.” He did not allow himself to glance at the door to the Rose, howevermuch he wanted to. He said, “I’m not entirely sure what we’ll, um, need, if it’s an inconvenience for me to wait here, I perfectly understand…”

“You’re fine,” she said. Her voice was softer now. “Let me know if you need something.”

“Thank you,” he said. He settled in, fingers drumming on the table, and waited.


	4. Chapter 4

Lusine ran her finger along the ledger page. The columns of abbreviations and numbers scratched across the parchment looked almost arcane. “Is there something you want to tell me?” she asked.

The Knight-Captain was gone, but Hawke’s heart was still attempting to claw its way out of her chest. She crossed her arms as though that might help contain it. She’d always known this day would come, but deep down she’d begun to hope against hope she might actually get through the full year of service without revealing she was an apostate. She still wasn’t sure how much she could trust the madame. Lusine suggested girlfriend service because it was expensive and she wanted Cullen’s money, but it was one of the few specialty services they offered that didn’t demand sex or the use of the rooms on the premises. It wasn’t inconceivable Lusine had suggested it so Hawke wouldn’t have be alone in a room with him. Hawke said, “I’m a mage, but I’m not the one he’s after.”

“And you withheld this knowing a mage would be expected to provide premium service.”

Hawke didn’t answer.

Lusine said, “Handle him. I don’t care how, so long as he’s not poking around my staff asking questions. When you return we’ll discuss how you’ll repay the amount you cheated me.”

“You won’t let him take me, will you?” Hawke asked.

Lusine was flipping through the ledger, evidently not liking what she saw. “A mage whore is worth three times as much. The Knight-Captain can fuck you as long as he pays but he won’t be taking you to his blasted Circle.” When Hawke didn’t move Lusine looked up, her annoyance softening. “Half the officers are afraid of me, including him. You’re safe under my roof.” Lusine returned to the ledger and added, “Provided you stay on my good side.”

Hawke was grateful for the reassurance, however small, as she threaded her way through the menagerie of sex in the hallway. She found business-as-usual oddly comforting in that moment. If she sucked a man’s cock, he came. If she pleasured a woman with her tongue, she came. She suspected the Knight-Captain would not be so easy to deal with. For now, at least, she merely had to play the part he’d paid for--the girlfriend. Comfortable, friendly, polite. She had to talk to him, but that didn’t mean she had to give him anything useful.

She debated whether to change her outfit and decided against it. She shouldn’t encourage him, not when there was a chance he might go his own way once the investigation was over. She added a practical sun hat and fan to her ensemble. Perhaps she could entice him to go on a walk so she wouldn’t have to stare at his face for the entire hour.

Outside, Cullen was waiting in the shade of an awning down the street. He sat alone in front of a small cafe, drumming his gloved fingers on the table in a rhythm that was more nervous than impatient. He saw her and immediately stood, banging his knee on the underside of the table, and knocked over his drink. He quickly righted the glass and managed a half-bow and remained standing.

Clearly he had no idea what to do with her now that he had her undivided attention.

“Would you like to take a walk?” she asked. She’d intended to use his title, hoping it might create some distance between them, but after seeing how flustered he was she decided to keep it casual. He felt too young to call ser and besides, it seemed a bit silly after the ridiculous way he’d spilled his drink.

“Yes,” he said, promptly. He followed her lead down the shaded main boulevard. It was a pleasantly mild day in Hightown. Brief, heavy rain had ushered in cooler air and the walk was enjoyable, company notwithstanding.

“I’m not certain what you hope to gain by speaking with me,” she said. “You understand I can’t divulge information about our clientele and I know nothing about mages.”

“Will you confirm there’s a mage among the staff, at least?”

“At least? That’s a rather large favor.”

“I suppose it is,” he admitted. “I don’t have many options. Two recruits have gone missing and they were both last seen at the Rose. I am confident the clue to their whereabouts lies with whomever they saw, and I believe they saw the same person. Only a mage could induce a templar to leave their post.”

“Why do they have to be a mage? Surely anyone could seduce or bribe a templar.” Or kill a templar, for that matter.

“Templars don’t simply leave their post,” Cullen said. “We are bound to the Order.”

“You’re assuming they take their oaths as seriously as you do,” she said. “Perhaps you’re the exception rather than the rule.”

Some dark emotion, perhaps anger, flitted across his face. For a moment she was afraid she’d misspoken, but his tone was neutral when he said, “Trust me when I say templars do not leave the Order easily. I fear the worst. Blood mages are everywhere, they abound in Kirkwall. The Rose provides ample protection and opportunity for blood magic.”

“You’re absolutely certain a blood mage is there?” she asked, a little too quickly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to frighten you, but I want you to understand the gravity of the situation. Only a blood mage would have the ability to induce templars to abandon the Order and their families. These lads know their families will not survive without them and will have to beg or… take more drastic measures to ensure food is on the table. You understand why I don’t think this is a simple matter of the lads being irresponsible or being wooed by, um…”

“A pretty face,” she supplied. This was about more than the safety of two recruits. It was about their families as well.

He turned to her, having sensed an opening, and said, “I understand the difficult position I’m putting you in, I truly do, but these are difficult circumstances. I only need you to confirm who they visited. I already know they went to the Rose so you aren’t divulging anything private in that regard.”

“What will you do to the mage, if there is one?”

He seemed a little surprised she would even ask. “Blood mages are executed,” he said. “We cannot risk allowing them into the Circle population.”

“But you don’t know they’re a blood mage,” Hawke said, stopping. “You don’t know that until they use blood magic. Shouldn’t the Order bear the burden of proof before you execute someone?”

“I know they are a blood mage,” he said patiently. “It is evident and I require no further proof. Maleficarum are too dangerous to keep alive, even in the Circle. The mages are susceptible to outside influence and prone to strong emotion. It is essential we protect them from such people.”

It was unsettling to hear a mage’s life could be extinguished by circumstantial evidence and the certainty of a templar barely older than her brother. Cullen evidently saw nothing wrong with the fact his word alone could see a mage executed, or branded, or… worse? Did even more terrible fates await? She didn’t want to know.

Hawke gazed over the plaza. From here the long steppes of stairs leading to the Chantry were visible. She’d read the Chantry had been a magister’s home once. The mansion had been converted to a chantry after the slave uprising. It was hard to believe someone had actually lived in such a place. The upkeep must have been staggering. Of course, the magisters kept slaves, free labor. Living in a home of that magnitude would not be feasible if the help actually had to be paid and accorded human dignity.

The Gallows had also been built with slave labor, and she would end up there if she didn’t handle Cullen right. She could deflect his attention to someone else, but as long as he was convinced a maleficarum was at the Rose she would be handing out a death sentence. She wasn’t prepared send another mage to their death, even if they were a blood mage.

“We should head back,” she said.

He blinked. “Oh. Yes, of course.” They turned, and there was a new urgency in his voice when he said, “I understand this is difficult to hear, but if one of your peers is practicing blood magic they are not who you think they are. They are certainly not a friend. Blood mages are opportunists and power-hungry by nature. The magic requires a great deal of blood sacrifice. They may well use your blood, if need be.”

“And if they’re just a mage?” she persisted. “What if there’s no blood magic involved?”

“Then I will take them to the Circle,” he said, somewhat resigned. “They will be watched and kept safe and their abilities will be put to much better use. In time they will be thankful for it.”

That rankled, a dangerous emotion to show, and she settled for crossing her arms. “You mean you’ll imprison them and make them work for free,” she said, and he laughed. “Slave labor amuses you?”

“You are persistent,” he said, with a small smile. He briefly met her eyes and cleared his throat before saying, “Magic presents a power inequality. Mage labor cannot be properly valuated, magic is a potentially endless resource with significant environmental costs--and in the case of forbidden magic, the costs are far greater. For instance, a properly-trained force mage has the demolition power of a crew of a dozen able-bodied workers, but using that power extensively will weaken the Veil. Such power must be regulated and put to good use for the benefit of all. Normal people should not have to compete with mages for their livelihood and exchanging magical labor for coin will inevitably lead to exploitation or base usage by criminal elements. The Order, best understanding the value of magical labor, can place mages where they are needed most so they may serve man according to the greatest need.”

It would have been her turn to laugh, if she dared. She remembered her father’s stories of being “loaned” to nobles for party tricks. He’d been a highly-respected Circle mage within the Gallows, but outside those walls he’d been an amusement whose tame displays of magical power encouraged philanthropy for the Order. Those same nobles would have shit themselves if they’d seen him sear the flesh off a skull with white-hot fire, as he’d done when the corpses of diseased farm animals needed to be disposed of. Anders was alone in Darktown, healing the sick, and where were the Circle mages whose power was supposedly reserved for the most needy? Their powers were probably reserved for the nobility’s amusement, just as her father’s had been.

“What about a mage whore?” she asked. “Do they have the pleasuring ability of a dozen able-bodied whores? Is that why you’re so keen to hunt them down?”

She hadn’t expected him to treat the question seriously, but he did, though his neck reddened considerably. “I expect mages in your line of work are held to a different standard, likely an unfair one, and are fetishized. Lacking social power, they will be exploited with little recourse and may even be blackmailed or held against their will. They would be much better off in the Circle. They would have better--ah, that is, a wider variety of opportunities.”

“The Chantry has made it this way,” she said. “They’ve restricted opportunities so mages have little or no options outside the Circle. They’ve made life difficult for mages on purpose.”

“I don’t deny it,” he said. “Many come to the Circle voluntarily but some must be forced. The Chantry applies pressure however it can for the sake of the common people. Mages must be monitored and controlled. They cannot be allowed to endanger or abuse others, and in turn they themselves must not be abused. The Circle is not a perfect solution, but I am not sure what alternatives we have.”

She let the conversation dwindle, fanning herself slowly, noting with a certain perverse satisfaction how he fidgeted as they drew closer to the Rose. When the red lanterns were in sight she turned to him. “What if I learned the whereabouts of the recruits? Would you be satisfied then?” She tapped the fan into her hand, closing it. “It’s my understanding you cannot arrest Lusine’s people. It seems to me the location of the recruits is far more important than the identity of the mage.”

He hesitated. He’d grown more relaxed with her during the walk, but now she could see the walls going up once more. “That’s probably true. I’ve met nothing but resistance where the Rose is concerned. I admit my authority is limited there.” He studied the building as if contemplating how many more times he might have to visit it to get what he sought. “Very well,” he said. “I am officially requesting the name of the person responsible, so I may interrogate them directly, but barring that… I will accept any information regarding the whereabouts of our recruits.” It was a small concession, but a concession nonetheless. Doubtless he expected he would be able to apprehend the mage after he found the recruits.

“You’re not used to compromise,” she said.

She caught a glimpse of that small smile again. “I am not used to having to defend my position so thoroughly, but I welcome the exercise. Most either take a bribe or spit on me. Occasionally both.”

“This is a substantial favor,” she said. “I expect something in return.”

She had not appreciated how rigidly he’d been holding himself until his shoulders slumped in relief. “Yes, of course,” he said. “I would wonder if you didn’t expect payment. What would you have of me?”

“Do you know the seneschal?”

“Regrettably.”

It was the way he said it. She giggled before she could stop herself, not missing the effect this had on him. “I need to get my family on the docket for an audience with the Viscount.”

He considered. “That can be arranged,” he said. The fact he’d actually thought about it gave her confidence. If he’d immediately agreed she would have doubted him.

“I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll write you.”

“Miss,” he said. He began to lift his hand but abruptly dropped it. He’d been careful not to brush against her as they walked. Aside from wanting her to sentence another mage to death he’d been on his very best behavior. “I apologize for how I treated you before. I wouldn’t want it to be like that. I don’t want to be that person. I--I’m committed to not being that person. I hope you believe me.”

She wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded and swept into the building before he could say more. She wove back through the people in the halls, gently brushing away questing hands, and went directly to Lusine’s office.

Lusine licked her finger and turned a page in the ledger. “Sit,” she said, taking up a fresh quill. “We need to discuss how many sovereigns you owe me and how many more years you’ll work to make it up.”

Hawke sat, smoothing her skirt, and said, “He thinks there’s a blood mage here. Unless you have a templar on the payroll I’m the only person qualified to deal with them. He’ll accept information in lieu of an arrest, but only if it comes from me.”

Lusine leaned back in her chair. “So you’ve figured it all out. Good for you. Let’s hear it.”

“I want a courtesan contract. Three years, fifty-percent commission and a twenty-five percent bonus for new clients.”

Lusine laughed. “You’ve got some nerve, girl.”

“You said a mage is worth three times as much.” Hawke lifted her index finger, allowing a small spark of electricity to dance along her fingertip.

“I did say that, didn’t I.” Lusine surveyed her as though they’d just me. Hawke had the distinct impression of someone parting her clothes, lifting her limbs and examining her sturdiness, grading the quality of meat on her bones. “Five-year contract, thirty percent, and you’re in-house for the first year to make up for the eleven months you stiffed me.”

“Forty percent.”

Lusine slapped the ledger shut so sharply Hawke jumped. “You’re haggling with me?”

“You said I should be more assertive,” Hawke said, keeping her chin up. It had been Lusine’s only bit of advice to a nervous, red-eyed Marian Hawke on her first day of work, when she was still sore from being bent over Meeran’s desk and unhappily resigned to more of the same.

“Know when to be assertive and when to thank your lucky stars,” Lusine said. “Idunna solicited the two templars he’s been asking about and she’s working on a third. I assume you suspected as much.”

Hawke nodded absently. She hadn’t wanted to be right. Idunna had always been kind to her, even from the beginning. She’d gladly taken templar clients off Hawke’s hands, and Hawke was always grateful and never questioned it. Some people liked templars, for whatever reason.

Lusine removed a document from her right-hand drawer. She filled out several spaces and said, “Your contract has a non-compete clause. You can work on your own after five years, but you can’t start a competing business. Most choose to stay with me in some capacity. You can renegotiate your contract at that time. The expectations for deluxe service are high. After you take care of Idunna your training will start. I expect you to handle the Knight-Captain if he persists, and you will do whatever it takes to keep him happy and out of my affairs.”

“Training?” Hawke asked.

“Mattis fucks your ass, and after you get used to that he’ll show you how to take two at once.” Lusine chuckled at her expression. “He’s a lamb, he’ll make sure you can do it without getting hurt. I assumed you knew what was expected of you.”

She did. She had listened to the courtesans’ shop talk in the lazy afternoons and found their discussions of work to be remarkably clinical and specific. She’d reflected on her own incorporation into those sexual diagrams and took comfort in an Orlesian transplant’s droll observation that Kirkwall’s nobility was not nearly so kinky as it imagined. The idea of kink, of extravagant naughtiness, was apparently enough for most. She’d overheard talk of percentages and commissions as well. With hard work and discipline she would be able to support her family and make the investments needed to pay for the estate. She knew of no other opportunity within her grasp that came close to the earnings and benefits of a courtesan contract.

Hawke read over the contract carefully. “You said thirty percent,” she said.

“You forgot your place. Now it’s twenty-five.”

Hawke took up a pen, but the point hovered over the signature line.

A flicker of some foreign emotion crossed Lusine’s lined, handsome face. “There’s power in this line of work. You climb high enough and even the Knight-Commander won’t be able to touch you. Remember that.”

Hawke was not naive about the arrangement. Lusine stood to make a great deal of money on an ambitious young mage courtesan with noble blood and her signing was in the madame’s financial interests. Nevertheless, there were kernels of truth in her words. She needed protection until she was influential enough to protect herself. Then she would be her own woman. With that thought, she pressed the tip of the pen to the parchment and signed.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a kink fic per se, it's more about power balances and economics and Cullen freaking out. No guarantees on updates.


End file.
